


Unknown Variables

by swaps55



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Batarians (Mass Effect), Biotics (Mass Effect), Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Mass Effect Holiday Cheer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28881909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaps55/pseuds/swaps55
Summary: A Mass Effect Holiday Cheer gift forRawLiverAnd Cigarettes!Jack heads to Afterlife to get a drink. It doesn't go as planned.Mordin isn’t a friend. None of them are friends. Pragia was a transaction. Shepard killed for her, she’ll kill for Shepard. Jack doesn’t owe her, or any of this ragtag crew of the galaxy’s most fucked up heroes, anything more than that.
Relationships: Jack | Subject Zero & Mordin Solus
Comments: 22
Kudos: 34





	Unknown Variables

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RawLiverAndCigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RawLiverAndCigarettes/gifts).



> Happy Holiday Cheer, [RawLiverAnd Cigarettes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RawLiverAndCigarettes/pseuds/RawLiverAndCigarettes), I am your Holiday Harbinger! I wanted to try to do something for you that explored two of your favorite characters through a found family lens, while taking a deeper look at the culture of a much-maligned alien race in the process. I hope you enjoy it!

**Unknown Variables**

When the _Normandy_ docks on Omega, Jack thinks about running. The hollowed-out asteroid is an easy place to disappear in, and Shepard’s not exactly going to waste precious time looking. That business with the Justicar should take long enough that Jack could be two systems away before Shepard even notices she’s gone.

It would be so easy.

Fuck Lawson. Fuck Taylor. Fuck the Illusive Man. This merry band of assholes Shepard is cobbling together may be a good formula for a hell of a fight, but the galaxy is full of ways to have a good time. She doesn’t owe these people anything.

Except…maybe she does.

When the airlock opens, Shepard walks away with the asari, chin low, listening intently, with the same laser focus she’d given Jack when she’d told her about Pragia.

_If you need closure, I’ll help you get it,_ she’d told Jack. No doubt she’s telling Samara the same thing. Shepard has a way of making you feel important.

Jack rolls her shoulders. Maybe she won’t run. Not yet. After all, if they’re chasing a soul-sucking asari, it could end up being a moot point. In the meantime, Afterlife at least looks like a good place to get a drink.

Alone, for fucking once. Without the brooding drell or the turian who thinks he’s funny, and the salarian who won’t shut up.

~

Except…it turns out maybe she doesn’t hate the brooding drell as much as the thought she did. At least not when the alternative is getting hit on by a turian who looks like he failed an audition for the Blue Suns. When she catches herself actually scanning the lounge for a familiar face, she swears and orders another drink.

These places are all the same. Neon lights, thudding bass, the smell of booze and alien sweat, like despair is a universal language that transcends species.

She stares moodily into a fresh drink from her seat at the bar, concentrating on the rhythm of the music, rather than the asari flaunting her bare hips a little too close for comfort.

It’s always _asari_ strippers. She’d pay good money to see an elcor on one of those poles. Even a salarian would at least be something different. With a snicker she wonders if the salarian doctor from the _Normandy_ has any moves.

Huh. Speaking of the salarian doctor.

Mordin pads through the bar, glancing over his shoulder before sneaking out the back exit towards the lower level. The kind of glance you tend to make when you hope no one’s looking.

Curious, she sets the drink on the counter and follows.

The salarian makes his way into a side alley before stopping to run a quick scan with his omnitool, mumbling under his breath. Fuck, he talks to himself even when he’s alone. She leans against a pillar out of his eyeline until the omnitool closes with a shimmer. After another furtive look he’s on his way again.

The shady alley takes a sharp left, opening back up into a side street that makes the Gozu slums look downright homey. The circulators wheeze, leaving the air stale and humid, which does nothing to mitigate the musty smell of piss. A human kid, can’t be more than a teenager, sits barefoot with her knees drawn to her chest, shitty Elkoss Combine pistol loosely gripped in one hand, guarding a pathetic pile of belongings. A pack of vorcha prowl the street several meters away. The most wholesome looking fucker in the whole zone is a batarian hocking wares from a bin, who sings a throaty tune that’s surprisingly pleasant.

Fitting that Afterlife, where Aria reigns from on high, is surrounded by the kind of place even rats might think twice about infiltrating.

So what the fuck is the salarian doing here?

The girl with the pistol eyes Jack with disinterest, then lowers her head and mumbles something to herself.

A part of her, a _very_ small fucking part, pities her. Just one more kid with no future and no say in it. Maybe one day she’ll get pissed enough, _angry_ enough, to fight her way out.

Not Jack’s business. Being soft never got her anywhere, and it won’t for this kid, either.

Jack scans the street for any sign of the salarian, concerned she lost him until she spots movement inside an abandoned storefront lined with broken windows. That damaged horn is hard to miss. She takes a step forward, but halts at the sound of voices coming from the other direction.

“This way,” a deep voice rumbles, flanged with subharmonics.

Jack steps abruptly back into the alley, pressing her back flat against the grimy wall. The girl’s eyes follow her, before she drops her gaze into her lap and mumbles again.

Suspicion pricks the base of Jack’s spine. One hand strays to the pistol holstered at her waist, a Carnifex, courtesy of the salarian. She raises her other fist close to her chest, probing the gravity well with a roll of her fingers.

A turian in Blue Suns armor comes to a halt in front of the girl.

“You sure it was a salarian?”

She stares up with wide eyes, grip tightening on her pistol, and nods.

The turian tosses her a credit chit and signals over his shoulder. A batarian and another salarian join him, one with a shotgun, one with an assault rifle. Jack swears under her breath. The girl is a little less helpless than she’d given her credit for.

_I thought this asshole doctor was STG._ How does former STG walk right into a trap?

She draws in a deep breath. Two against three is easy enough odds.

Well. She’d wanted to find a good time.

She steps out of the alley, one hand clenched in a fist at her side, smirk curling the corner of her mouth.

“Where are you going, pretty thing?” a batarian voice snarls from behind her. No pleasant singing voice on this one, especially when the barrel of a gun presses between her shoulder blades.

Jack’s eyes flick to the girl, who stares at her with dull, disinterested brown eyes. Jack had done her own fair share of informing when she was young, hungry, and desperate for credits.

_Hope they paid you good, kid_.

Her smirk twists to something dark. “Wherever I damn well please.”

The storefront explodes.

Jack’s corona roars to life as she drives her elbow backwards, kinetic energy connecting with the batarian’s armor and sending him flying into the opposite wall with a crack. She pivots, drawing her pistol in one fluid movement, and fires until the sinks on her thermal clip hit saturation, each bullet bleeding off more and more of his kinetic shielding. The warning klaxon of the shield failure rouses him from a daze. He stirs, attempts to rise with a croak. Jack meets him halfway with a gauntlet of dark energy wrapped around her fist that ensures he won’t get up again. She grabs his shotgun and whirls to face the burning storefront.

“Fuck,” she mutters under her breath before vaulting through a broken window.

The stench of ignited thermite hangs heavy in the air. She coughs into her elbow, wishing for the combat armor Shepard had procured for her, stashed safely and unhelpfully aboard the ship. At least that would filter out some of the smoke.

Two bodies litter the ground, one of them salarian, but this one has a cobalt hue and two intact horns. Two…but not three. One of the mercs must still be breathing somewhere. She flicks her wrist, wrapping herself in a high-density mass effect field.

Most of the damage appears confined to the front of the shop. _Almost like someone laid a trap_. Maybe the salarian isn’t as careless as she thought.

A bullet whings through the air, striking her in the back of her shoulder. She rocks forward with a grunt, her biotic barrier bleeding off most of the kinetic energy and dispersing it in ripples like a rock striking a pond. Jack swings the shotgun around, firing from the hip before she’s even sure who the target is.

Turian, with blood on his chestplate and kinetic shields fried from the blast. When the turian staggers under a barrage of shotgun pellets, Jack raises her palms and _shoves_ the curtain of dark energy away from her with a roar of static. The turian hits the far wall with a thud and slides to the floor. As Jack stalks past him, she plants one more round in his faceplate for good measure.

Footprints mar the fresh soot and old dust. She follows them, quick and silent to a back room, where the salarian scientist stands with his back to her, arms raised, hands behind his head. A human and two more turians train their weapons on him.

Damn. Her count was off.

“Where is it?” one of the humans demands, kicking an empty crate at their feet.

“Not here, apparently,” the salarian replies.

“What did you do with it?” the turian cuts in, waving the barrel of his rifle.

“Hmm,” Mordin muses. “If I had it, confident you would not find it _or_ me.”

“Kill him,” the human mutters.

Jack grins, the prospect of another fight flooding her with warmth.

“Try,” she says.

She springs. The gravity well does a somersault, dark energy crackling as she unleashes, corona burning like a torch. All three Suns whirl. The human goes down with a crack, neck bones snapping in his armor as she twists them with a garrote of biotic energy. She tosses her pistol into Mordin’s waiting hand before pumping two rounds from her pilfered shotgun into the turian.

The second human remembers his real target, but as he turns to face Mordin, the salarian calmly aims his omnitool and unleashes a cloud of super-cooled subatomic particles. The ablative of the human’s armor freezes, powered joints locking.

Mordin aims the pistol. “Unfortunate for you I didn’t find it.”

He pulls the trigger, and the human drops. Mordin hums and turns towards Jack, ignoring the fresh carnage at his feet.

“Fortunate timing. Blue Suns sent larger squad than anticipated. May have miscalculated. Mission parameters not what STG predicted. Follow me.”

Jack puts a hand on her hip. “Where exactly are we going?”

The membranes of his eyes slick briefly shut. “Hopefully somewhere with less risk of getting shot.”

~

Mordin leads her down a twisting maze of side streets and alleys until her sense of direction is lost completely. Under any other circumstances she’d expect Mordin to stick a knife in her and leave her in a dumpster. She still watches his hands, but the weird thing is…she doesn’t actually think he’s going to come at her with a knife.

_Fuck you,_ _Shepard_. Mordin isn’t a friend. _None_ of them are friends. Pragia was a transaction. Shepard killed for her, she’ll kill for Shepard. Jack doesn’t owe her, or any of this ragtag crew of the galaxy’s most fucked up heroes, anything more than that.

She flexes her fingers as he wanders into another shop – this one occupied by a tenant, at least. A salarian at that, tall and skinny, with a sallow face that scans Jack with disdain. She flips him the bird, which doesn’t register any recognition. Cultural differences aside, the gesture might lose a little of its obscenity when you only have three fucking fingers.

Mordin ignores the exchange, flips his translator off and mutters something to the shopkeeper, who then nods and gestures to a back room. Jack follows him.

The room they walk into is hardly a storage closet, and it’s sealed behind a security door that might even slow Shepard’s quarian down. Active consoles line the walls, along with an arms locker and a QEC.

“Safe here,” Mordin announces when the door closes behind them.

“Heard that before,” Jack mutters. Her eyes rove. This place has STG written all over it. “You seem awfully active for retired STG.”

“ _Am_ retired. However, temporarily reactivated. Old friend needed help.” Mordin inhales. “Difficult to explain.”

“I just took out three assholes to save your neck. Try.”

“Most unexpected,” Mordin concurs, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Assistance appreciated.”

She folds her arms across her chest, unsure why the gratitude bothers her so much. “Yeah, okay, whatever. What the fuck is going on?”

“Former colleague lost, ahem, important prototype. STG traced to Omega. Another agent sent to intercept and retrieve, but failed to report in.”

“So your buddy called you.”

“Correct.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “That’s why you never do anyone a favor. Always blows up in your face.”

“Hm. In this instance, certainly the case.” Mordin begins to pace, tapping his chin with a long finger. “Suspected Blue Suns were involved, though deemed less of a threat after Archangel’s activity. Went to rendezvous as instructed, but case empty. Blue Suns must have intercepted.”

He cocks his head.

“No, no. _Didn’t_ get there first. Assumed _I_ had it. Surprised they opted to kill me rather than interrogate. Sloppy. Vakarian appears to have depleted their upper ranks significantly. If not Blue Suns, third party must be involved. Blood Pack? No, no, no, no. Intelligence network too lacking to know prototype exists. Eclipse? Perhaps. Can’t rule out. Aria? Prototype valuable. _Her_ intelligence not compromised by Archangel. Considerable profit to be made—”

“Do you have to think every fucking thought in your head out loud?” Jack interrupts with a roll of her eyes.

“Yes,” Mordin says simply.

“What the hell is this thing everyone wants to steal so fucking badly?”

“Light refractor technology.”

Jack frowns and rests her hip against one of the consoles. “What, like Goto’s cloak?”

Mordin nods.

“Why is that so fuckin’ special?”

The salarian comes to a halt and scrutinizes her carefully. “New design. Existing refraction technology utilizes emitters that bend light around operator. However, emitters integrate with power cells feeding kinetic shielding. Only one system available at a time. Cloaked individuals unprotected by shields. Critical weakness.”

“And let me guess. This…prototype solves that problem.”

Mordin nods.

“Well, shit. I assume you want it _back_.”

“Not something STG wants on Omega black market, no,” he concurs. “Must find prototype before it leaves station.”

Jack sighs. “Should I find Shepard?”

Mordin activates his omnitool and wanders to the QEC. “Shepard chasing an ardat-yakshi. Believe that takes precedence. Fewer people who know about this the better. Used to working in small teams. Two of us should be adequate.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Why should I help you?”

Mordin glances up. “Already helped. Perhaps ask yourself why?”

Fuck him.

She scowls. “What the fuck is it with Shepard and insisting everyone do some bullshit self-reflection in order to go on a suicide mission? I helped because it was better than sitting alo—better than sitting in a bar.”

Mordin shrugs one shoulder. “Could go back to Afterlife. However, fairly certain Blue Suns now targeting you as well.”

Jack grunts. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’s soloed a pissed off gang gunning for her. But…maybe having another gun in the fight _not_ shooting at her isn’t such a bad thing. “Good fucking deed, huh?”

Mordin blinks. “Human idiom? Parable? Metaphor? Anecdo—”

“Forget it.” She waves her hand. “What’s our next move?”

The salarian steps onto the QEC, which flickers to life. “Need intel. Contacting STG for possible leads.”

A holo shimmers into view. Another salarian face, this one with a green hue, materializes. Every fucking salarian Jack’s ever seen looks pissed off by default. Something about the mouth.

_“Dr. Solus.”_

“Major,” Mordin replies, tone almost sunny, as if they’re planning to shoot the shit. “Enjoying your promotion?”

“ _Amusing. Are you enjoying your retirement?_ ”

“Not enough data to reach conclusion.”

The natural downturn of the salarian’s mouth becomes more prominent. _“Did you retrieve the cargo?”_

“Cargo intercepted by unknown party. Located missing agent, however.”

“ _Alive?”_

“Wouldn’t be involved if he were.”

The salarian on the vidscreen makes a disgruntled sound. _“Do you know who got to it first?”_

“Unknown. However, believe it was not Blue Suns.”

_“Why?”_

“Kept asking me where it was.”

Another disgruntled sound.

“Assume you’d still like my involvement?” Mordin asks.

_“We can’t let that technology leave Omega.”_

“Have to ask, how did it get _out_ of your possession to begin with?”

_“Prefer not to talk about it.”_

“Ah. Leak, then.”

_“What matters is we don’t have it and we need it back. I have a tracer on the prototype that still appears to be functioning. Sending you the frequency. You mission is to get it back at all costs before it leaves the station. Understood?”_

“Never let you down before, don’t intend to start now,” Mordin replies with a serene level of confidence that is either presumptuous as fuck or a little terrifying.

Shepard sure knows how to pick ‘em.

The transmission ends, and Mordin steps off the QEC panel, activating his omnitool.

“I can’t tell if you hate him or want to fuck him,” Jack muses.

“Neither,” Mordin says, tapping at the haptic keys. “Long association with Major Kirrahe. Good agent. Good mentor. Fond of speeches. Dislikes altered mission parameters.”

“I bet he’d just love Shepard then,” she says with a chuckle.

“Might be surprised.” A few keystrokes later he nods. “Prototype appears to be in Tuhi District. Should move quickly.”

He pads over to a crate along the far wall of the room, flips it open, and digs around the contents for a moment before hefting a sleek looking shotgun and tossing it to her. “Prototype. Not fully tested in the field. However, believe it suits you.”

She looks down at it and turns it over in her hands. It’s got a lot more curves than the human manufactured ones, and lighter weight, too.

“Three barrels?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Double barrel fires explosive rounds. Third barrel manufactures microgrenades. Designed to facilitate…unplanned exits.”

She chuckles. “Fucking salarians.”

“Will need it back upon successful mission completion.”

“And if I want to keep it?”

“Have to kill you,” he says simply.

She shakes her head as Mordin lines his pockets with thermal clips and a few other gadgets. The fact she believes him actually makes her feel a little better.

_Already helped. Perhaps ask yourself why?_

She doesn’t have to ask herself shit.

~

Tuhi District is just like the docks around Afterlife. Made to seem impressive at first glance, but the moment you look beyond the surface you see it for the pisshole it really is. Tucked into D Deck, the place is crowded with merchants selling anything from engine parts to extravagant VIs that could probably fuck for you if you asked them to.

Perfect spot for the black market to operate in plain sight. Fucking Omega.

The tracker signal points to a volus-run shop specializing in widgets. According to Mordin’s info, the proprietor is Dila Forzin.

“Likely run into resistance,” Mordin muses. “Blue Suns surely following us, presume whoever has device prepared for attempt to intercept.”

“I thought salarians were supposed to be sneaky,” Jack says. “The type who _infiltrate_ things. You telling me we’re just going to walk in the front door shooting and hope for the best?”

“Don’t _have_ the light refractor technology.”

“You’ve been spending _way_ too much time with Shepard.”

They make their way through the crowd, Mordin’s eyes darting back and forth as he scans the route to the shop. “Blue Suns detected in vicinity. Two confirmed, one more likely.”

“Great. So how do you propose we get in there to question the volus without dying?”

Mordin eyes her carefully with his wide, black eyes. “Your, ahem, _methods_ tend to attract attention. Have identified a more discreet entrance. Suggest you provide a distraction while I…infiltrate.”

“Mordin, I said I’d help you, not die for you.”

“Actually, did not state either intention. However, good opportunity to test shotgun.”

Damnit, she does want to test the shotgun.

“Do all salarians think they’re funny?”

“Not according to Major Kirrahe.”

“All right,” she says with a sigh, rolling her neck and cracking her knuckles. “How _big_ of a distraction are you looking for?”

“Preferably minimal civilian casualties.”

“I thought this was a ‘by any means necessary,’ kind of thing.”

“Yes, hoping civilian casualties _not_ necessary.”

It’s interesting when Mordin’s moral code actually makes an appearance. You wouldn’t figure someone who had viewed refining the near-sterilization of an entire species as a fascinating career challenge to be overly concerned about a few extra bodies no one is going to miss. Most of the people in this district are corrupt, the kind of people Garrus, or Archangel, whatever the fuck he prefers, would have tried to put a bullet in.

“Blue Suns agent ahead on right, loitering in doorway,” Mordin murmurs.

Jack turns her head. Not hard to spot him. Their damn tattoos are about as subtle as hers. He’s human, a little over 180 cm, in some cheap shit token light armor, but not wearing a helmet. The dick is watching them closely, smirk on his face that she’s going to be all too happy to wipe off.

Jack flexes her fingers, the gravity well canting under her touch as rills of dark energy play across her knuckles. “Guess you better find that discreet entrance.”

Mordin waves his omnitool casually, the now-familiar scent of thermite stinging her nostrils. She locks eyes on the Blue Suns prick and strides towards him, the corner of her mouth quirking up as a gauntlet of biotic energy sheaths her clenched fist. His eyes widen, apparently not quite prepared for a direct assault. As he fumbles for his weapon she slams her fist into his neck, warmth flooding her nerves as the vertebrae snaps.

Behind her, the thermite ignites.

Mordin hadn’t used enough to do more than cause a scene, which it does nicely. The screaming starts before the merc’s body even hits the ground.

Jack hefts the shotgun as she turns. Mordin is nowhere in sight.

“If you’re a civilian, suggest you clear out,” she calls out over the din. “I’m supposed to avoid casualties, and can’t aim for shit.”

Without second bidding, shoppers and merchants flee the scene. Only a handful move towards her.

Mordin had assumed three, including the dead guy. His count is short by two.

Her grin is feral. Mordin hadn’t said shit about _non_ civilian casualties.

She pumps one of the microgrenades into the street, and roars.

~

The street is a smoking ruin when Jack ejects her last thermal clip and wipes a smear of blood from her forearm. The batarian bastard who’d come at her with the flechette had lived just long enough to regret his life choices.

The shotgun works just fine.

She exhales deep, stilling the shake in her hand by tightening her grip on the gun. Her stomach growls. Too bad she hadn’t grabbed a juice pack on her way out of the bar. Don’t suppose the volus has a biotic recovery kit with a few energy bars stashed with all her precious widgets.

The gash on her arm oozes freely. Fucking batarian blades and their fucking anti-coagulants. She spits into the debris on the ground before heading into the volus’ shop. If the salarian isn’t done by now, he better get to it. Pretty sure that _distraction_ is going to attract a little more attention than Mordin was probably hoping for, so hanging around probably isn’t in anyone’s best interests. At the very least, even if the mercs can’t shoot straight, Aria probably isn’t too keen on two of Shepard’s asshole crewmates blowing up her precious asteroid.

As Jack strides through the volus’ shop, an asari cowering behind the register shrieks in dismay.

“Don’t _hurt_ me, you _monster!”_

“Not here for you, princess,” Jack intones. “Where’s Forzin?”

“In…in the back.”

Jack chuckles. “I’ll make sure she knows how loyal you are.”

Of course a place like this has a shady back room. This is Omega, after all. In fact, this place has _several,_ and none of them are as flashy as the salarian hideout. Takes her a moment to find the one that’s occupied. It’s little more than a hole, papered with rusty bulkheads that would probably provide about as much protection in a hull breach as a piece of plastic.

When she enters, Mordin aims a pistol in her direction before looking up.

“Ah, Jack. Not dead. Good.” He holsters the pistol and gestures to the volus, presumably Forzin, whose breathing apparatus clicks and whirs as the beady yellow eye slots of her suit shift from Mordin to her. “Problematic development locating the prototype.”

“Is there any other kind?” she asks.

The volus grunts. Her mechanized voice is higher pitched than most. “If I had any idea…how much trouble it would be…I never would have gotten…involved.”

“Knew trouble inevitable when you discovered STG tracking device,” Mordin says with a pragmatic hum. “Yet chose to stay involved.”

“Do you know…how much profit…I just made…off that refractor?”

“Involved how?” Jack asks with narrowed eyes. “What did she do?”

“I removed…the tracking device,” Forzin replies.

Amazing how smug the little shit can sound through a breather.

“Also brokered transport to smuggle prototype off Omega. Freighter scheduled for departure in two hours. Registered to Omega Coalition of Cargo Transporters. Unhelpful.”

The volus shrugs her stubby arms. “My clients prefer…anonymity.”

Jack examines her fingernails. “I remember an asari smuggler who was really attached to anonymity for _her_ clients. We encountered a few volus there, too. Wanna know what we did when we found out they were smuggling?”

“Paid them off?” the volus ventures hopefully.

“Try again.”

Mordin coughs. “Threats unproductive. Not only intel volus provided.”

“I have…a name,” Forzin mutters.

Blood still dribbles down Jack’s arm in scarlet ribbons. She grabs a piece of cloth she finds on a shelf and slaps it over the laceration, pressing down hard to keep it in place. Not likely pressure will do much against that fuckling anticoagulant, but better than dripping all over the floor. At least it’s a distraction from the contraction in her stomach. Her glucose levels are headed to the toilet.

“So what’s the rest of the good news?” she asks.

“We were correct about Blue Suns. Not who obtained the prototype.”

“So who did?”

“Batarians,” the volus pipes in. “Surprisingly…well-spoken ones.”

Jack recalls the batarian in the alley with the pleasant singing voice. Seems there’s just a rush of well-spoken four-eyes on Omega these days. “Could it be one of Aria’s lapdogs? Though I wouldn’t exactly categorize them as _well-spoken._ ”

“No,” Mordin says. “Fear worse than Aria. Possibly agents of the Hegemony itself.”

Jack scowls. “The Hegemony wants cloaking devices?”

She’s pretty sure the salarian can’t think unless he paces. It’s a miracle the deckplates in his lab haven’t worn through.

“Batarian Hegemony isolated. Technology outdated. Armor outdated. _Weapons_ outdated.”

The volus bobs her head. “Dealer I worked with…not a Sun. Wore armor…two generations old at least. Most mercenaries have…more modern gear.”

“Their flechettes are pretty fucking effective,” Jack mutters. The towel’s already slick. She grimaces, but presses down anyway. Better than nothing.

Mordin waves a dismissive hand. “Occasional breakthroughs expected, but isolation stifles advancement. Light refraction unlikely target for military development. Have more basic, fundamental needs. Unlikely target for profit. No contact network to negotiate through. Too many outside dealings required. Other motive must be in play. Need to find out what.”

Jack eyes the volus. “I’m guessing you didn’t manage to get his name or any other helpful information.”

“He was…well-funded.”

The lines on Mordin’s brow deepen. “Kirrahe sent dossier of dead agent. Maban Calus. Did not know him directly, but familiar with his work. Part of infiltration mission to Khar’shan few years back.”

“What the fuck was STG doing on Khar’shan?”

“Reconnaissance.”

“And you think there might be a connection if the Hegemony is somehow involved.”

“Unknown,” he says. “Credits no object, yet poorly kitted armor. Dead STG agent with ties to Khar’Shan. Need for light refraction technology. Too many variables, not enough answers.”

“Is _why_ they’re stealing it really that much more important than stealing it _back?”_ Jack asks.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Things not always what they seem. Unknown variables often have significant impact. Unintended consequences.”

She snorts. “Like krogan women offering themselves up to torture in the name of fertility?”

Mordin halts. His glance is sharp, cold, but to his credit, he doesn’t flinch. “Genophage project necessary to preserve galactic stability.”

She shifts a little, averting her gaze. The pang of regret over hurting his fucking feelings is unexpected and unwelcome.

“They’re batarians. They brutalize and enslave and take pleasure in abusing their power over those too weak to fight back. How much room for ‘unknown variables’ can there really be?”

“Pirates and slavers _not_ representative of batarian people,” Mordin snaps, nasal voice ripe with disdain. “Hegemony forbids citizens to leave batarian space. Culture, customs, art, largely unseen by galaxy. Most unfortunate. Batarians quite…unique.”

Unique is one fucking word for it. Jack’s seen their brand of _unique,_ and it has nothing to do with art. Saying otherwise is pretty rich coming from the asshole in favor of sterilizing an entire race because they put up a better fight than anyone else, but a moral debate definitely isn’t why she stuck around.

She’s here for a fight. Helping one of Shepard’s crew is just a bonus.

Mordin resumes his pacing. “No data, no resources, no time to prepare.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Head for docks. Forzin had prototype transferred to warehouse. Must intercept prototype before loaded on freighter.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Unknown.

Jack shrugs. “If we can’t stop the ship, I bet Joker’s bored. Bet he’d love an excuse to give his precious Thanix cannon a whirl.”

“Much at stake here,” Mordin insists. “This technology in wrong hands…disastrous.”

“What, and STG is the _right_ hands? What makes you so much fucking better?”

“Our technology. _Our_ responsibility. Someone else might get it wrong. Cannot, _will_ not let that happen.”

She throws a frustrated hand in the air. Fucking salarians. What has a self-righteous sense of duty and honor ever gotten anyone aside from a knife in the back or a bullet between the eyes?

Forzin taps Mordin’s arm on his next circuit past her. “I have…maps of the tunnel system. Might…help you get there…alive.”

“What makes you so fuckin’ helpful all the sudden?” Jack asks.

“I would charge…a fee of course.”

Jack leans towards her. “How about your ‘fee’ is I graciously agree not to smear you across the wall like a tube of nutrient paste.”

The yellow eye slots darken, then light up again. “That…is a good price.”

“Fucking bet it is.” She wipes at her arm once again. The fucking gash won’t stop oozing.

Mordin stops pacing, tilts his head and ambles closer to her. “Injured. Superficial, however does not appear to be clotting. Batarian weapon?”

Jack jerks her arm away when he tries to examine it. “It’s fine.”

Those owlish eyes blink. Or whatever it is salarians do. “Can assist.”

Jack hesitates, then extends her arm. The salarian’s hands are way too fucking gentle for someone who knows that many ways to kill someone.

Mordin finds a medigel pack and plugs it into his omnitool, muttering under his breath. “Human biology, platelet infusion, modified for correct blood type, ah! Still have formula to counteract anticoagulant chemicals.”

“Wait,” Jack says. “You _know_ the chemical composition for that shit they put on their flechettes?”

“Of course.”

“I thought _no_ one knew that.”

Mordin clucks his tongue. “Perhaps not _outside_ of STG.”

He applies the medigel manually, applying pressure with a compress until it hardens into a protective coating over the gash in her forearm.

“Should hold until we get back to the ship,” Mordin informs her.

“Thanks,” Jack murmurs, running her fingers over the hardened gel.

Mordin turns to Forzin. “Going to restock on thermal clips, plastics and alloys. Assume no objection?”

“Help…yourself. I’m disappearing into those tunnels…the moment you leave. The credits…have already cleared.”

“Not before you give me those tunnel maps,” Jack says.

The volus sighs. “Very well.”

She waves her omnitool. Jack checks her own and nods in satisfaction.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Forzin.”

The volus makes a gesture with her wrist that Jack is pretty sure is obscene before waddling off to a far corner of the room. With a grunt and a heave, she shoves aside a crate with her stubby arms and disappears into the tunnel revealed behind it.

Jack huffs. “I’ll say this. Today’s been a lot more interesting than I expected it to be.”

~

The honeycomb of tunnels and passageways that lead through the guts of Omega are about as haphazard and unpredictable as the station itself. Jack wipes sweat off her brow as she pulls herself up another ladder. The shake in her hand is getting worse, but there hasn’t exactly been a chance to make a pit stop for a juice box.

Maybe the sneaking around bullshit will work, and she won’t need to gravity well to stay alive. If it doesn’t…well. This salarian shotgun is cute.

Besides, she’s fought with low blood sugar before. All she has to do is _survive._ The rest can be fixed later.

Mordin is nearly silent during their trek, for once not thinking out loud. Until he starts humming. It’s a melancholy tune, but soothing somehow.

“What is that?” she asks as they duck to make their way through another tunnel. This one looks like it was carved for a volus.

“What is what?”

“ _That._ The song you’re humming.”

“Ah. Movement from _Tarla Shaan._ A Dak’Sharai.”

“Dak’Sharai?”

“Batarian cross-caste love story,” Mordin explains. “Among most poignant in the galaxy. Khanne Sesdarah a phenomenal talent – better than Fesnarok. In my opinion.”

“Batarian…opera?”

“Musical theater.”

Jack grimaces as her head bumps the roof of the tunnel. “You like batarian musicals.”

“Hard to find them. Hegemony outlaws alien viewings of performances. Have to obtain holos on the black market. Could arrange to provide you with a few, if desired.”

“No thanks.”

They continue on again in silence, soon broken by more humming.

“Any ideas yet on how you want to break _into_ the warehouse?” she asks.

“Have a few tricks. Hoping to be less…noticeable this time.”

“Too bad you don’t have a light refraction cloak.”

Mordin clears his throat. Jack sighs.

“You do, don’t you.”

“Correct.”

“You said you _didn’t_ have one. I just blew up a street back there!”

“Thought it might be best to keep in reserve. Besides, not the improved prototype.”

“Ah, so the ‘better not get shot especially since neither of us are wearing hardsuits’ kind.”

“Indeed.”

“Great.”

“Will do everything possible to ensure you do not get shot.”

“Wait. _Me?_ You want _me_ to wear the cloak?”

Mordin nods as they make their way down another ladder. “Once we’re inside warehouse, cloak, find manifest, locate prototype. Leave rest to me.”

“Mordin, I’m not exactly subtle.”

“Best option. Believe your glucose levels low. Biotic display places you at unnecessary risk. Don’t worry. You can do this.”

“I don’t need a fucking pep talk,” she mutters.

_Biotic display places you at unnecessary risk._ Until the fucking _Normandy_ , no one has given one shit about putting her at risk, necessary or unnecessary.

_Already helped. Perhaps should ask yourself why._

Fuck _off._

~

When they reach the warehouse, Mordin gets to work. Within moments, he triggers an alarm on the opposite side of the facility to disperse the guards and fabricates orders that send a few others on a goose chase.

He makes one final adjustment to the emitters fastened to the waistline of Jack’s pants. It’s not much better than strapping them on with duct tape, but Mordin assures her it will be good enough.

“Use of biotic barriers will interfere with emitters,” he informs her.

“Where the fuck is combat armor when you need it,” she mutters, wiping a thin sheen of sweat off her brow. Never again will she leave the ship without a goddamned energy bar.

“Goal is _not_ to get shot at,” Mordin reminds her.

“Yeah, but I’m a realist.”

He ignores her. “Won’t take long for guards to discover deception. Once inside, locate terminal and upload algorithm sent to your omnitool to access manifest. Find prototype. Ignore noise.”

“ _Noise?_ ”

The dour cant of his mouth turns upward. The smile is even more alien than the natural scowl. “Doing things your way.”

She smiles back. “Let’s steal a prototype.”

~

Entry into the warehouse goes smooth, at least. The light refractors create a faint hum not unlike the swell of biotic energy, just without the tingle. Her field of vision is unobstructed save for the faintest shimmer.

The warehouse is a cavern, but a terminal is easy enough to find. A desk at the head of one of the aisles sits empty and unattended, likely thanks to Mordin’s distractions. She takes a seat, uploads Mordin’s algorithm and puts her feet up on the desk to wait.

Voices.

Two turians, both grumbling and headed right in her direction. The algorithm is still running; she can’t _leave_. Damn it, they may not be able to see _her,_ but that’s not gonna matter when one of them unwittingly tries to give her a lap dance.

She clenches her fingers into a fist, testing the gravity well, gritting her teeth when the shake becomes even more pronounced. Two of them shouldn’t be a problem. It’s the six more who will inevitably come out of the woodwork that might be more of a challenge.

At least she has the shotgun.

They inch closer, still griping, still somehow unaware she’s sitting right there at the desk. She draws in a deep breath.

All hell breaks loose.

Mordin pops up in the middle of one of the aisles stacked with shipping crates, smiling and singing like an asshole. The turians halt, justifiably taken aback, before raising their weapons and running towards the insane sight. Even Jack blinks at it a few times, wondering how in the hell simply running out in the open and begging to get shot is somehow _her_ way of doing things.

The two turians take aim, barking questions and ordering him to stand down, which would be hard to do given there’s no weapon in his hand. When the salarian doesn’t react, one of the turians fires.

It passes right through him.

By the time they realize the salarian is a projection, the manifest pops up on the display, the prototype’s code highlighted. Jack grins and slips away from the desk. Storage bay E27. She resists the temptation to run.

Another pair of guards, a human and an asari, nearly run into her two aisles down, until a small mobile turret zooms around the corner behind them and emits a sharp burst of electricity that tazes the asari in the chest.

Jack ducks around a corner, one hand passing briefly through the cloak’s silhouette. She hisses through her teeth as she retracts it. She’s used to fluid movements, mnemonics, and unrestricted rage. Caging herself up in this goddamned light suit is _maddening_.

The sounds of Mordin’s carefully orchestrated bedlam echo throughout the warehouse. Crafty bastard is better than she gives him credit for.

She finds the container in storage bay E27 without further interruption. One case. One small, unobtrusive case.

One _empty_ case.

Jack swears as she wrenches the lid open and finds nothing inside. The swearing gets louder when the barrel of a gun jabs her between the shoulder blades. The emitters of the cloak shimmer as it fails.

The asshole already has a hand on her shotgun, and relieves her of it.

“Turn,” a voice says. “Slowly. Hands up.”

Jack pivots on her heel, hands raised, gravity well swirling with a wave of her fingers. She’s got enough in her to go out with bang, anyway.

There’s nothing there.

“Mother fucker,” she murmurs. “You’re the thief.”

“I steal what you will use for death so I can use for life.”

The voice is gruff, but not unpleasant, with the familiar batarian flange.

“You think I give a shit why you _want_ it? Everyone has a fucking cause. What makes yours so fucking special?”

“It’s _mine,_ ” the voice hisses.

“I’m going to be real disappointed if this is a Hegemony dick measuring contest, or worse, some kind of cultish manifesto. Either way I’ve seen it before. I know what you are.”

“I am not _tar'knah-eruk_. You know _nothing._ ”

“I know enough not to give a flying _fuck.”_

“Walk.”

“You’re the one who’s a walking dead man. Should have thought twice about who you decided to fuck with.”

“I lost a friend today to get this technology,” the voice says, voice sharp enough to cut. “I won’t hesitate to kill an enemy.”

The pistol jabs her between the shoulders again, so she walks, altering her trajectory whenever directed to do so. The echo of Mordin’s countermeasures continue, but more intermittently.

They wind up at a side door that opens up onto an alley beside the docks, which Jack is shoved roughly through when it hisses open. She stumbles, but recovers, pirouettes, and snarls, eddies of biotic energy writhing in both palms.

“You picked the wrong bitch.”

She unleashes the kinetic energy with a powerful heave, spiking her amp and filling the air with a hiss of static. The batarian grunts as the impact knocks him to the ground, shotgun flying out of his hands, head clacking painfully. The light refractors shimmer as the cloak fails.

It’s a batarian, all right. All four of those deep, dark eyes blink at her, brimming with hate. Like the volus said, he wears an ancient set of Predator armor, fitted with razor sharp, detachable blades. The blades can’t be much more than an intimidation tactic, or something to deter a punch from a bare hand. They’d hardly leave a mark on combat armor, though they’d probably do a number on a civilian trying to stand up for themselves.

Hot rage surges through her. Mordin can talk all he wants about their precious art and culture. All she sees is the civilian, cowed by fear.

Blood drips down Jack’s nose as she draws her arm back, the blue energy wrapped around her fist glinting like a star.

_“Wait!”_

The panicked tenor of Mordin’s voice stays her hand just before she strikes. The coil of energy gutters out as she releases the gravity well and drops her arm. The salarian walks towards them, sheathing his omnitool, staring hard at the batarian eyeing them defiantly from the ground.

“What the hell?” Jack asks, breathing heavily. She wipes the blood from her nose. “The Hegemony isn’t someone you play fucking nice with. Even I know that.”

“Not Hegemony,” Mordin says, voice low, eyes never leaving the batarian. “Are you?”

The resentment in those four eyes burns bright, but he says nothing.

Mordin taps his chin, deep in thought. “ _Reth shar Tarla Shaan_.”

The batarian’s head tilts left, some of the resentment replaced with curiosity. Maybe even hope. “ _Tarlaji marak’gha chuk shar ibsalis_.”

“As suspected,” Mordin says quietly.

Jack blinks. “You speak batarian now?”

Mordin shakes his head. “No. But always listen to _Tarla Shaan_ without translator. Loses something otherwise.”

“ _Tarla Shaan._ The fucking musical.”

“Yes. Maban Calus not killed trying to obtain prototype.” He directs his gaze to the batarian. “Died letting you escape.”

Jack’s eyes widen. They widen even further when the batarian nods.

“Yes.”

“You’re the singing fucker from the alley, aren’t you?” Jack asks. “From the original drop point. You were standing there like an asshole hocking shit out of a bin while the Suns murdered Calus.”

“My name is Gratok Ras'manrek. Calus volunteered to confront the Blue Suns so I could flee with the prototype. He said to blend in with the scenery until the Suns had gone. I…hoped he would survive.”

“Infiltration mission to Khar’shan had unintended consequences,” Mordin continues. “Calus became sympathizer to batarian people. Developed connections with _Balna’prodok_. Stole prototype, fabricated evidence it was taken to Omega. Sent to retrieve what he already had, to get it to you.”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck _for?”_ Jack demands. “What the hell is _Balna’prodok_?”

“Covert organization dedicated to smuggling citizens out of Hegemony,” Mordin explains. “Hardly more than a rumor. Even STG did not have solid evidence it existed. Impressed by Calus’ dedication.”

“He was a good man,” the batarian growls.

Jack looks back and forth between them. “That’s why you wanted light refraction. To help you smuggle citizens out of Hegemony space.”

The batarian pushes himself up to his elbows. Mordin, to Jack’s surprise, offers a hand to help him to his feet.

“We deserve freedom. The galaxy deserves to hear the voice of Khanne Sesdarah. Instead she rots in a prison for standing up to persecution. This technology would make it possible to extract her. Others. The people of Khar’Shan bleed, and no one sees it.”

“So by reclaiming this prototype,” Jack says, “we fuck over your efforts.”

“Most unfortunate,” Mordin says.

Jack whips her head towards the salarian. “Wait, you’re not going to help them?”

“Our mission not aiding Khar’Shan political prisoners,” Mordin says. “Prototype too dangerous to leave salarian hands.”

“After you’ve spent half the day telling me what a repressed, misunderstood people they are?” Jack asks, incredulous. “Are you shitting me? You can _help_ these people. Isn’t that what you do? Help people? Or was that clinic of yours just an academic exercise?”

Since when the hell had she become so committed to _helping_ others? No one had fucking helped her. Cerberus sure as fuck hadn’t treated her much better than the Hegemony treats its own citizens, but she’d clawed her way out. She’d _survived._ Over and over, against the odds, often out of pure spite. She wouldn’t give the galaxy the fucking satisfaction of finishing her off. No one had given a shit about her.

Until Shepard.

Shepard, who had put everything aside to go to Teltin. Colonists going missing by the thousands, and Jack just wanted to plant a bomb on a life’s worth of bad memories. Maybe the act was self-serving. Shepard helping her out made her a better fighter.

Except she didn’t think so. If it were just about that, Jack would have put a bullet in Aresh’s skull instead of letting him walk away. _Not like this,_ Shepard told her. Like she gave a damn.

There was a time when Jack wouldn’t have bothered to save the life of a salarian doctor, or help him retrieve a stolen prototype when there was nothing in it for her.

_Already helped. Perhaps should ask yourself why._

Maybe because having someone around to patch you up after a fight isn’t as terrible as she imagined. Maybe because relying on someone else means you can do more than just survive. You can do a little _living,_ too.

Maybe if someone had _helped_ Jack when she needed it, things would have been different. Can’t change that. But maybe they can change it for someone else.

Mordin resorts to pacing, hand close to his pistol. “May help _Balna’prodok_ , yes. Could harm countless others. Risk it would fall into Hegemony hands too great.”

“Your buddy didn’t think that risk was too great,” Jack points out. “And he believed it enough to die for it.”

Ras'manrek tilts his head to the right. “If you want it back, you’ll have to do it over my corpse. We put all our resources into obtaining it. I will not return to my people without it.”

“One prototype not worth your life. Resources to reverse engineer and reproduce nearly nonexistent. Would take years.”

“Some hope is better than no hope,” Ras'manrek says.

Jack grunts. “Look, Solus, you do what you want. I don’t give a fuck. But Calus already helped. Maybe you should ask yourself why.”

Mordin remains silent. That’s a goddamned first.

“Mission parameters appear to have changed,” he says at last, and activates his omnitool. “Must return prototype to STG. However, have alternative solution that may…help.”

~

The _Normandy_ is still half-empty when they return. Jack had argued for stopping at the bar first, the thought of those few extra steps to get onto the ship too much to bother with. Mordin, however, insisted, even going as far to help her get there. Ordinarily she might have taken his head off for trying, but this deep into a glucose dive, having the help is kind of…nice.

Kelly Chambers greets them cheerfully when they come through the airlock, her sunny disposition melting a little at the sight of Mordin half-holding Jack up, blood smears under her nose, medigel slab on her arm, and bits of Blue Suns viscera stuck to her clothes. Between the blood, guts, and sweat pouring off her, she probably smells like a peach.

Kelly opens her mouth to say something, but Jack cuts her off with a feral grin.

“Bar fight.”

Mordin coughs into his free hand.

Kelly’s mouth closes, opens again, before she presses her lips together and just nods as Mordin drags Jack onto the elevator. When they arrive at the crew deck, he sits her down at a table. She curls over and thwacks her cheek against the cool surface.

“This isn’t my rack,” she mumbles.

“Calories before rest,” Mordin informs her.

“Fuck you.”

“No thank you,” he calls from somewhere near the galley. She doesn’t bother to look up to see what he’s doing. Instead she begins cursing under her breath. It’s been ages since she’s used herself up this much.

It fucking _sucks._ That’s what you get for helping people, she supposes.

Moments later a glass of juice and an energy bar appear by her elbow. The glass even has a straw sticking up out of it.

“ _Shullagalag_ ,” Mordin offers helpfully.

“Shulla fucking what?”

“Batarian slang. Pertains to shoving brooms up your cloaca.”

“I thought you said you didn’t speak their language.”

“Languag _es_ ,” he corrects. “Many dialects. Only dabble. However, fond of expletives. _Kra'tash_ another good example, though does not translate well.”

“Mmph.” She sucks the juice noisily through the straw. To her surprise, Mordin sits down across from her instead of wandering off to his lab. She eyes him warily.

“Don’t tell me we have to have a fucking heart to heart bonding moment, or I will _shullagalag_ whatever it is you call your ass.”

Mordin blissfully ignores her. To be fair, she hardly comes off as threatening when she misses the straw with her mouth and nearly pokes herself in the eye.

“Did not have to help. Appreciate that you did. Your perspective…useful.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t fucking tell anyone.” She nibbles on the energy bar. The juice is already helping. “You do realize that giving what’s-his-fuck, Ras'manrek, the actual fucking _schematics_ for that prototype is probably worse than just letting him get away with the prototype right?”

“Perhaps,” Mordin concurs. “However…right thing to do. Can’t predict consequences. Too many unknown variables. Duty to help people. Many ways to do so. Chose this.”

“Do you think they’ll ever manage to build any of those cloaks?”

“Uncertain. Up to them.”

Jack bobs her head. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“Of course.”

She gets unsteadily to her feet. “I’m gonna go pass out. Hopefully the Blue Suns, batarians, Aria, and ardat-yakshi will all get fucked and leave the ship alone for a few hours.”

The downward turn of Mordin’s mouth quirks upward. “Will be in my lab if you need me.”

Jack makes her way down to the engineering deck. As she rolls onto her cot her omnitool flashes. An incoming file from Mordin, titled, _Tarla Shaan_.

She huffs. Then digs out a pair of headphones, settles back into her cot, and hits play.


End file.
